Ever notice how some chicks seem to have it made?
They’re just born with a certain je ne sais quoi, a feminine swagger that men want carnal knowledge of and women want to steal. This beguiling quality is rare and as elusive as it is captivating.
It can be maddening. It’s like they’re not even trying, and they can catch the eye of a blind man. They sparkle. Even their driver’s license photo looks like the cover of Maxim. But I’m talking about an allure that’s more than just aesthetics; it’s a comeliness so ferocious that can only come from a primal dwelling place deep within us all, a brilliant place of fearlessness and ballsy-ness. We just have to bulldoze through a lot of stupid crap and insecurities to get there.
Yeah, they’ve got it made all right.
“A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you’ve been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man—promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it’s going to be okay. The supermodels, Willy? That’s all they are. Bottled promise. Scenes from a brand new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels.” ~Paul Kirkwood, Beautiful Girls
For me, it all started with Farrah Fawcett. I met the gorgeous Texan when I was young and visiting the set of Charlie’s Angels. This is what I remember: a) she had a smile as wide and glorious as a Cheshire cat, b) her hair, as you can imagine, was fluffy and perfect, and had a flower in it, and c) she stood for a photo with my brother and me, and in that photo my brother looks like he’s about to self-implode.
The Farrah poster. It only sold, like, a billion copies. No wonder my boyfriend likes it when I wear my hair all bedroomy and fluffy. And I can’t help but notice guys seem to gravitate toward the type of chick they had a thing for when they hit puberty. I’m guessing that’s why so many have a teacher fetish.
If you ask a thousand guys about their memories of adolescence they will invariably talk about the scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High: Phoebe Cates, the red bathing suit, the unhooking of the red bathing suit top… she’s the classic teenage vixen. This image has been burned into their brains, like useless sports trivia and a thing for KISS music.
A come-hither look and a sly little smile. It’s all so simple.
The hot chick. She’s a vision in boyfriend jeans and a tank top. She hangs out with other fierce hotties, like alley cats on the prowl. These femmes order dirty martinis, eat steak and sleep in the nude. They shoot nine ball and have bedroom hair. Rapturous and amazing creatures, they are.
This chick is the girl next door, if, say, she lives next door to the Amityville Horror house—she’s got an edge. Flowers and a bottle of wine don’t do it for her; she prefers gum and beer. She has no problem being called “eye candy,” or “sex on a stick.” She’s hell on wheels, and she’s got nice getaway sticks.
If you’re the kind of girl who would be called a chick, you’re already way ahead of the curve. Some of us are girls, some are women, or babes. Some are even broads, or the foul-mouthed saloon girl type. Anyone ever call you a “skirt?” My friend Johnny nicknamed his girlfriend “The Dress.” I have to admit it’s pretty cute, and a little Grace Kelly-esque.
One of the best compliments I ever got is when someone told me I was a Mary Ann. I’m not sure if he was talking about my freckles or my personality (or my gullibility, which I am a little guilty of sometimes). Ginger may be the glamorous one, but no one wants to hang out with a self-centered actress longer than 20 minutes, especially one that packs seventeen sequined gowns for a three hour tour.
High-maintenance is never hot.
I’m sure my man friends will let me know if I’m onto something here. And what do I know, you ask? Ever since I was 14 years old and Ian Holmes pulled up outside my house in his bright red Mustang to take me on a joy ride, I was a girl on the loose, boy crazy and good at it. (It’s not as bad as it sounds—my parents only let me go around the block. Once.)
Ian Holmes was 16 and looked like Jim Morrison; I had a crush on him the second I first saw him. Like a little Lolita, I knew exactly what I was doing, and the next thing I know he’s writing me love letters and taking me for rides around the block. Ian Holmes was the second guy I ever kissed.
Where’s your red Mustang guy, you ask? You want to be the fierce kind of chick that goes around being hot and breaking hearts? There’s a few tricks I’ve tried that have worked out pretty damn well.
When it comes to getting the guy you want, showing just a bit of skin is a good place to start. Answer the door when he comes over in ripped jeans and one of those cut-up shirts that falls off your shoulder, Flashdance style. Dare I say, this look is more seductive than a trenchcoat, stilettos and nothing underneath. Save that look for later—maybe dinner with the parents.
Outfits that are tricky are also good, i.e. tops that look like you’re wearing nothing from the back, like halters. But wear at your own peril. I watch a lot of slasher flicks, and it’s the overtly sexual ones that inevitably meet their demise.
Speaking of which, don’t be a baby about stuff. If you ask me, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a frightening masterpiece (the 1974 original, not the pointless remake). If you’re screaming and carrying on and running out of the room at the gruesome parts, I don’t even want to know. I saw Alien with a guy when I was 13-years-old, in the theater, and I didn’t get all dramatic because a snarling creature came bursting out of a guy’s stomach.
Watch and learn guy movies: Cool Hand Luke. Dirty Harry. The Godfather. Throw some quotes around, like, “It’s not personal. It’s business.” A little Corleone goes a long way. The same goes for music; if you’ve never heard of Sid Barrett or John Bonham, we’ve got a huge problem.
Set traps. This can be great, if you can pull it off properly. When I was in seventh grade I borrowed my brother’s Mattel Handheld Football Game and paraded in front of the skater boy I had a crush on. Eventually he couldn’t help but notice the cool girl in Ditto’s hanging out, playing her little toy. He made his move (*Cue Nick Gilder’s “Hot Child in the City.”). And that’s how it’s done.
Don’t try too hard. When it comes to boobs, lips, hair and anything else you might feel like altering, give it some serious thought. Hold off on the Revlon Red lipstick and hair extensions, unless it’s 1954 and you’re going on stage to entertain the U.S. troops in Korea. Keep it natural. If it’s good enough for Brigitte Bardot, it should be good enough for all of us. Oh, and learn French.
Laugh a lot. Smile. Wear pink, it makes men crazy. Be girly. Wear dresses. Toss your hair around and laugh.
Confidence goes a long way. There’s nothing worse than an insecure, needy girl. Self esteem is an aphrodisiac, and an attribute that can’t be taught. I used to get served in bars when I was 16-years-old. Why? Because I had an amazing confidence that got me what I wanted, and it was permanently cranked up to 11. It’s an innate talent, like whistling. Or evaluating complex logarithms.
Wouldn’t it be fantastic if your boyfriend knew every word of The Way We Were? Familiarize yourself with the rules of major league sports, and maybe even the names of sports legends. Commit them to memory; use flash cards if you have to. Bonus: A vast knowledge of sports statistics. At that point, you’re actually moving into marriage material.
Knowing how to handle a weapon is probably the fastest way to get where you want to go. You, skin tight jeans, thigh high boots and a Samurai sword? First of all, be very careful where you swing that thing. Second, no one expects you to actually know how to slice a man to ribbons. It’s strictly the visual we’re going for.
Glasses—a classic accessory. Three words: Hot. For. Teacher. Yup, it’s the teacher thing, and glasses make you look smart, which deep down is what makes you sexy. It’s important not to underestimate the brain here. I know people who use fake glasses because it gives them sex appeal. This, to me, is genius.
Finally, cooking dinner for a man is great. Baking a dripping, sweet sugary pineapple upside down cake for dessert is better. Believe me, I made one last week. I can send you the recipe. You won’t be sorry.
♥ ♥ ♥
If you asked me when I was young what I wanted to be when I grew up, I may have said “supermodel” or “ring card girl.” I ended up working in fashion, which brings me to the second time I met Farrah. I went to her home on a job, nervously stared at the original Andy Warhols hung everywhere and ate chocolate cake with her on her bed.
At one point her assistant came in and asked her something about the red bathing suit from the iconic poster. She explained: “The Smithsonian wants that bathing suit but I don’t know where the fuck I put it!”
She was wearing jeans and a tank top that day. Her southern drawl was still apparent. She had guts, a certain sweetness and the most fantastic hair I’ve ever seen. She giggled like a teenage girl. She was utterly full of life, which was the most provocative thing at all.
This is what I’m talking about, friends—a down-to-earth, honey flavored authenticity.
Don’t be discouraged. Cindy Crawford once said, “even I don’t wake up looking like Cindy Crawford.” My boyfriend likes to tell me I look best first thing in the morning, before I put on any make up, with my freckles and all. (I love him for it, but I just paid $28 for a black Chanel eyeliner and it’s not going in the trash.)
So above all, be yourself and be sweet. You were someone’s first something; first love, first kiss, second kiss or junior high crush. Someone might be thinking of you and the way you flipped your hair in 10th grade, and to that person, you were the foxiest chick in the world. You can still be her, but old enough to have a checking account and legally be served cocktails.
So throw on some Daisy Dukes, mosey down to happy hour with your friends for some Jack and Cokes and flirt your ass off. There’s nothing to fear, smitten kitten.
Be brave. It’s the hardest thing in the world to do, but it’s what makes you so totally fierce.
Editor: Kate Bartolotta
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